Karl Boisvert sands down a new sole on a pair of boots Thursday at Boisvertís Shoe Repair in Barre. / EMILY McMANAMY, Free Press

Written by

Susan Green

Correspondent

Ernest Boisvert, 82, stills puts in a few hours each week at his family business, Boisvertís Shoe Repair in Barre, alongside his son, Karl (right), and grandson, Ross. / EMILY McMANAMY, Free Press

Vermont's other cobblers

RutlandLenoci's Shoe Service has been around since the early 1930s, though in four different spots. "It was started by my grandfather," explains Tom Lenoci, who sold the business three years ago but still helps out part-time. "I began working here in sixth grade, shining shoes. Rutland once had five cobblers."BenningtonKing's Shoe Service has been in the same family since 1936 at different locations throughout the town, according to owner Tony Napolitano.Marra's Shoe Service was purchased 50 years ago by Dora and Dick Torey. "We get 'em from all over," she says of her customers. "There used to be five cobblers in Brattleboro and none now. My husband is 74, but doesn't want to retire. Our kids are not interested in taking over. If doctors could give him a couple of new knees, he'd be all set."NewburyDusty's Cobbler Shop, open since 1982, has been up for sale lately. Robert "Dusty" Rhoads is 75 and hoping to retire. Some of his customers travel many a mile to reach the lone shoe repair Mecca in all of eastern Vermont.

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Never mind that time in the early 1960s, when John Welsh, then a U.S. Marine, learned jungle survival skills from the Negrillo pygmies in the Philippines. His survival skills at Williston's Town Cobbler, as one of a dwindling number of Vermonters who repair shoes, matter more these days.

The sole saviors of soles and healers of heels in the northern part of the state are Welsh, Steven Hopkins of Onion River Cobbler in Winooski and the Boisvert clan of Boisvert's Shoe Repair in Barre.

Further south and east, four cobblers have stuck it out. Where numerous artisans once rehabilitated foundering footwear, the seven that remain represent approximately one for every 88,570 Vermont residents.

There are about 7,000 cobblers throughout the country, according to the Shoe Service Institute of America in Maryland. Compare that with 20,000 in the 1980s, as many as 80,000 during World War II and 120,000 during the Great Depression.

Blame the advent of inexpensive and, for some households, disposable products from China. To take advantage of cheap labor, shoemaking was among the earliest industries to go offshore when manufacturers began to outsource American jobs. As consumers decided it would prove less costly or more hassle-free to buy new, mending those beat-up old loafers became a quaint notion.

In addition, foreign imports often bypass leather and rubber -- historically, the basic ingredients -- in favor of synthetic materials that result in what Welsh calls "chemical shoes." He contends a different kind of cement needed to secure these plastic compounds was not readily available at first and some cobblers resisted adapting their methods: "The industry shot itself in the foot."

Thanks to the recession, however, the public apparently has started to cherish shoe longevity again. Consequently, there's been a surge in demand, although no quick solution is on the horizon to address the scarcity of cobblers. It's not a top career choice for contemporary youngsters.

In a disappearing enterprise, Welsh is among the few who have carried on. He launched his operation in the late 1970s, after spending almost two decades as a police officer in Winooski, his hometown, and Shelburne.

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While a rookie cop, he once chased a gang of thieves that had kidnapped a local woman and single-handedly exchanged gunfire with them until reinforcements showed up.

But even a tough guy can experience burnout, which Welsh eventually did.

Instead, Welsh wound up apprenticing without pay for a master cobbler, who in turn helped him establish his own shop -- originally in Shelburne, until relocating to Taft Corners a dozen or so years ago.

"There's just something about that back room where nobody bothers you," Welsh says of his attraction to the ancient craft.

Yet, his back room is not exactly isolated. When customers enter the store, the bell that rings is loud enough for Welsh and his son David to hear it above the sounds of various machines that cut, rip, grind, nail, hammer, sand and sew.

Carried around in a pocket of John Welsh's battered leather apron, a portable phone rings frequently. And his shop is the official nationwide repair center for Dansko, a Pennsylvania-based company best known for its clogs, so express-mail couriers regularly deliver packages from other states.

Despite the hubbub, there's a kind of timeless tranquility in the place. Hundreds of small jars hold metal fasteners, rivets, eyelets, hooks, snaps and grommets. Spools of colorful thread are arrayed on a shelf. Wooden shoe stretchers hang from pegs. A well-worn iron boot jack stands near the workbench, a testament to the value of things made to last.

\Perhaps the Town Cobbler's surprising calm is linked to the sense of purpose in an honorable occupation that dates back at least to the 14th century. In the throwaway society of the 20th and 21st centuries, restoration of, say, vintage Buster Browns contributes to the health of the planet itself.

"We save tons of shoes from the landfill," notes Karl Boisvert of Barre, whose great-grandfather, Joseph, started as a cobbler in Quebec.

The Boisvert story is typical of a profession that traditionally relied on the continuum of successive generations: Joseph's son, Adelard, settled in St. Johnsbury in the 1930s, before relocating to Northfield. That's where Adelard's son, Ernest, was taught the trade. In 1950, the two men moved the endeavor to Barre, where Ernest works part time with Karl and, periodically, his 21-year-old son, Ross.

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"We sold a few cans of polish then," Ernest Boisvert, 82, says, reminiscing about what the store originally offered other than repairs. "Now, we've got a leather shop."

They carry Birkenstocks, belts, suspenders and motorcycle gear and serve a wide geographical region. "When I got started, there were five cobblers just in Barre and a few in Montpelier," the elder Boisvert says, before adding his reason to continue the family heritage: "I love what I do, and I know what I'm doing."

For Karl, 54, the devotion to shoes was not quite so obvious until he rejoined his father in 1986. "After college, I got into the criminal justice field," he explains. "But no matter what else you do, you end up coming back."

The economy's recent downturn has meant an uptick of at least 25 percent in their rejuvenation efforts, which amount to about 90 pairs of deteriorating shoes a week. "If your dog chews it up, we can fix it up," Karl Boisvert boasts.

The dog at Onion River Cobbler is named Blockhead, a 13-year-old chow-boxer-pit bull mix spread out as usual in the tiny waiting area on a warm August afternoon. A customer must avoid the sleeping pooch's tail to approach the counter where Steven Hopkins, whose workplace has been a downtown Winooski fixture for 25 years, inspects the torn strap on her leather sandal.

If so, Hopkins' introduction to miraculous techniques came from Harold Sikora, the late cobbler whose Burlington store dated back to 1892 but closed when he retired in the mid-1980s.

After selling his own leather goods in New Jersey for 10 years, Hopkins was renting space in the back of Sikora's Shoe Repair on Center Street, where he made belts and sewed zippers into pocketbooks. Without any formal lessons, he merely observed the cobbler's process.

Trial and error were inevitable while teaching himself how to transform a shoe in distress.

"I did this all on a wing and a prayer," Hopkins says.

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"When I first bought my shop, there were four other cobblers in this part of the state. There are only two of us now," he says, including John Welsh's place in his tally. "I go through 4,000 claim-check tickets a year, some of them for multiple repairs. That's between 8,000 and 12,000 articles. They keep me busy."

More so than ever, "now that the economy has tanked and people want to fix everything," Hopkins adds.

But, at 60, he finds the work increasingly difficult because it requires standing up all day. For a life in shoe repair, Hopkins says, "you need happy feet and smiling toes."

Welsh, too, has contemplated closing his doors, though the return of David a few years ago -- after losing an airplane mechanic job when the company left Vermont -- provides Town Cobbler with more options.

"He can do almost everything I can," John Welsh explains, realizing how fortunate it is that his 30-year-old son would come back into the fold. "In the old days, most cobblers were born into the business, but the world is changing."

To weather that change, Welsh practices daily Christian meditation. This spiritual path seems to keep him well-grounded as he cures hundreds of pairs of ailing shoes each week.

Welsh also writes (so far unpublished) children's books, collects donations for the food shelf and runs Vermont's Toys for Kids program out of a section of his store. He's a former scoutmaster and, for a time, produced his own line of ketchup and relish.

Welsh says his retirement, if it ever happens, might involve operating a hot dog stand. How this would compare with the wild boar those survivalist pygmies taught him to cook -- "The best food I've ever eaten!" -- is yet to be determined.